Memories
by Moringotho-in-Angamando
Summary: Caranthir's death, and memories. Might do a follow-up on this, haven't decided yet. Rated Teen for character death, and possibly later referenced death and torture.
_Author's note: I have decided that long stories aren't for me, and that it is too rare that I have both the time and inspiration to write for me to make any promises. However, sometimes I do have both at the same time, and thus this story came to life (because it's Friday night). This story is centered on Caranthir and written from his point of view, about what he remembers in the Halls._

* * *

I feel the pain in my shoulder, and in my side, and in my leg. It doesn't matter, I have to get to Curufinwe. Curufinwe, the one so like our father, and meeting his death in a similar way. Part of my mind knows that it was his fault, that running into a middle of a council of armed Elves was not a good idea even for one as skilled as he is... or was…. but it is but one part of my mind. Another one insists that he is my brother still, and that I still might save him - though what can one crippled brother do for another, but spend the last minutes together? The greatest part of my mind, though, the part that grows with every second, pushes me forth with hope. Hope that I shall see the light again, one last time. The light of the Jewels.

I crawl over the cold stone floor. It seems impossible that but a few minutes ago, I was fighting, standing on my feet, wielding a sword. Now every meter is agonizing, and the journey to Curufinwe seems to take ages - though it should have taken no more than half a minute.

Five steps away, I stop, coughing up blood. Pain explodes again in my sides, rushes through my entire body. I cannot bear this much longer. All the more reason to hurry.

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. My heart is beating loudly, and I know that there is something terribly wrong with its rhythm.

Thud, thud-thud - my knees and palms, torn and bleeding, hit the floor. I try not to look at the blood covering it.

Splat, and a drop of blood falls to the floor. I know it is from some part of my body, but I can no longer identify which one it is.

I am dizzy as I finally reach Curufinwe. I force myself to raise my head, to see through the dark mist. Blood, so much blood covering the once beautiful armour, now heavily dented. My eyes stray to the hands - first the right, then the left. Both are covered in the same dark red, both are empty.

So are my brother's eyes.

"Curufinwe," I whisper, though no sound comes from my lips. It is too late. It is over.

I hear footsteps. Maybe it's Nelyo, maybe more of Dior's men. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. This was my last chance, and it is over. Over, I realise, falling on Curufinwe's body, finally feeling the pain recede to an echoing ache.

Thump. Thump-thump…. Silence.

* * *

My trip to Mandos is the most shameful thing I can imagine. I have rejected the Valar, all of us had, but they were right all along - we still come running to them, to kneel at their feet, defeated. At first I want to refuse, but I see ahead of me the silhouette of Curufinwe. Not the grim warrior of the last few centuries, but the young boy, barely come of age, carefree, yet skilled and determined. In the years before he joined Father in his projects or his rebellious ideas, before that took up all of his mind. When he was still human.

I see him turn and beckon to me, and see that his hands are clean of blood. As he moves his arm, I see another shape in the distance. Tyelkormo, I know, though it is too far to see clearly the features. But no one else in the world walks that exact way, no one else has the same hair or shoulders or legs, no one is made so perfectly for hunting as Tyelkormo. Too perfectly, I think before I catch myself.

And I follow in their paths. I turn my mind inwards, and know that I am myself as I was a decade or so before I came of age. In the years when I began to idolise father and Tyelko and to despise Nelyo. That was just a stage, and I found myself hoping that I would soon grow out of it. I knew that Nelyo was not following, and shall not follow - at least not for a while. That he did not need my evil wishes, that he had enough from the Valar, and Dior's folk, and many Men - really, who did he and Macalaure have, besides the group of maybe a hundred Elves who must have survived our fatal attack on Doriath?

I follow the path ahead of me, walking on nothing, feeling time and space bend around me and straighten out again. And then I come up to a gate.

My brothers have passed it, and I am alone now. In the middle of nowhere there is the Gate. A heavy black door with beautiful golden engravings, and I know out of nowhere that it is the Gate. That here I shall make my final choice - to go in, to submit to the Valar, or to leave forever, to wander as I please, forever alone but free.

I raise my hand to the golden door knob. I know that the Valar will not force me to go in, but that they would not let me go out if I submitted to them. Yet Tyelko and Curvo walked through, and perhaps even Atar before them.

I close my eyes, putting my hand down on the knob. I feel myself lose my sight, my hearing, the ground from under my feet… just one thing is left, the door knob. I seize it with two hands, holding on. I knew I could not let go.

It all lasts for but a moment, but it feels like a lot more. For but a moment, I see and hear again the sights and voices of Beleriand, where I have spent so many years. I see a fire burning and, as I get closer, realise that it is a pyre. I see that on it three bodies rest, and know without looking who they belong to.

Three figures stand by the flames. On my left, my eldest brother towers above the rest of the audience. I know that he is wounded, that he is not standing fully on his left leg, but I know also that he will live. I see tears in the gray eyes, something that even those close to him saw rarely.

Next to him, Ambarussa. He looks lost and discouraged, but that is hardly is a surprise. I cannot recall a single time when he had not looked lost since we left Aman, or discouraged since the burning of the ships at Losgar.

On the other side of Ambarussa stands Macalaure. I see that he has been crying, but has already recovered. I wonder if he, the gentle bard, or Maitimo, the determined warrior, would lead the people on. I look into his eyes, and suddenly realise that they are staring into mine.

I reach out my hand, though I do not know what I plan to do - and let go of the door knob. I am falling, falling slowly yet quickly. My mouth opens in a silent scream, only to close again, to form into a thin line, as I come to a standing position.

"Welcome, Moryafinwe Carnistir Feanarion," announces a formal voice. Mandos.

* * *

 _A/N: I might continue this with a second chapter, maybe not. We'll see. Please review and let me know what you think, every review is very much appreciated._

 _Translations:_

 _Curufinwe: Curufin (father-name). Also Feanor's father-name, but in this case it is Curufin. Short-form: Curvo_

 _Nelyo: Short for Nelyafinwe (Third-Finwe), Maedhros' father-name. (Using his mother-name, Maitimo, meaning "Well-Formed One" seemed more than a little ironic.)_

 _Tyelkormo: mother name of Celegorm, translated as "Hasty Rider" (in reference to quick temper). Short-form: Tyelko_

 _Macalaure: Maglor's mother-name, "Forging Gold"_

 _Ambarussa: the name given to both twins Amras and Amrod. I am going by the version that one of them died at the Ship-burning at Losgar (the version is from the Histories of Middle-earth)._

 _Moryafinwe Carnistir Feanarion: Father-name (meaning Dark Finwe), mother-name (meaning Red-Faced), and Feanarion (meaning son of Feanor) - Caranthir's name._


End file.
